Echo Flux
an excerpt

Liam is visiting Hollis. At least, he’s trying to.

He has the number to his hospital room, and he’s found the room (with the kind help of one of the nurses). What he hasn’t found is his friend, who is supposed to be in bed, asleep.

Liam is pacing around the room and looking out into the hall, nervously and beginning to panic.

Where is Hollis? he wonders. He should be right here, asleep and peaceful.

Maybe they’ve taken him away, says a spectral voice. He might be dead. Or they might have taken him to have surgery.

Liam tries to ignore the voice, but here it goes again.

Check the morgue, the voice says.

Liam shuts the voice out, thinking about his library, visualizing it so powerfully he might as well be there. There’s nineteenth - century fiction, with all the shabby paperback reprints from the twentieth and twenty - first century, standing beside the beautiful, lovely, and worn original volumes which can’t be touched without gloves. Then there’s twentieth - century fiction, full of plain hardback volumes, intermingling with fragile paperbacks that even Liam barely dares to handle. And at last, the slim shelf of twenty - first century fiction, with slick plastic - bound books dominating until the mid - century revival of books bound to last -- Liam recalls that this was a backlash against the risingly popular electronic books, and turned into the thriving publishing industry of today, which uses the same technology that was used to print the Declaration of Independence in copies, and Gutenberg’s Bible, and Luther’s Ninety - Five Theses, and . . . all those lovely old books.

Liam is very proud of his library -- they have an original Gutenberg Bible, and even an original copy of the Ninety - Five Theses . . . not to mention the Declaration of Independence.

But then he remembers -- if that book is right, then everything in those wonderful old documents is wrong, wrong, wrong -- their words about humans and mutants are falsified, centuries after the fact, to provide a false history.

Liam pushes that thought away as well, and now visualizes his house, picturing the front hall in perfect detail.

“Hey, beautiful,” a soft, vaguely Southern voice purrs. “You look . . . lonely.” A cool hand strokes Liam’s cheek. “Mind if I keep you company?”

Liam opens his eyes suddenly, shocked. Well, there’s Hollis. His ears are twitching in a way Liam has never seen anyone’s ears twitch, and then he almost grasps what’s going on -- but he pushes that thought away. Liam does not want to know.

Hollis cups Liam’s chin in one hand, and keenly observes his features.

“Did anyone ever tell you you were beautiful, Liam?” he asks, and leans in to kiss Liam.

Liam feels like he’s been released from some kind of spell, and struggles away from the man he could have sworn was his friend just this morning.

“Stop, Hollis,” he says in his best angry - librarian voice. Liam has practiced this one on a few patrons who refused to leave when he asked them to, and he knows it should work.

So why does Hollis kiss him anyway?

It’s a chaste kiss, on the cheek, not the lips, but Liam still feels threatened and frightened by it. This is not his friend. This is someone else -- someone dangerous.

“I’m going to call a nurse,” he says calmly, in the voice he uses when someone has damaged a book. Liam steps away from Hollis and towards the open door.

“No, you’re not,” Hollis hisses. He glances at the door, and it shuts itself -- softly, even, because a slam would bring attention to them, and Hollis doesn’t want attention. Liam is genuinely frightened of his friend now -- he has never seen Hollis angry, only mildly displeased -- and he has good reason to be.

“You’re going to stay right here,” says Hollis. “With me.”

He grabs Liam by the shoulders and pins him against the wall. Liam is trying to run, and he thinks dazedly that just this morning, this man who has him pinned against the wall couldn’t even tell fantasy from reality, and was arguing light - heartedly with him about whether he should go home.

A long time ago, Liam constructed a memory palace for himself, after he read about the subject in a book. To him, it is as perfectly real as any place in the “real” world, or more real. It is an amalgam of his library and the house he grew up in, an old mansion which always seemed to be full of dark corners.

Liam closes his eyes as Hollis runs his cold hand down Liam’s cheek again, and tries to get himself there. It’s so simple for him to do, and yet --

(Hollis kisses Liam, one arm crooked around him.)

-- yet it takes Liam more than a moment to get there. Once he’s there, though, he’s all there, and he doesn’t have to be in the “real” world any more. He opens the door into the comfortable house he built for himself as a teenager, and breathes in the calming scent of tea, mingled with old books and the faint scent of flowers. It’s spring in his memory palace now, and Liam decides he will go out back to the flower gardens.

(“Is that better?” Hollis asks in his soft Southern accent. “But oh honey, you still look so lonely. Let me help you with that.”)

He walks down the main hall to the door at the back of the house which leads out into the gardens. He pauses at the threshold, vaguely sensing something in the “real” world, but ignores it and goes on, out the door. The flowers are in bloom, bright dots of color in Liam’s vision.

(Hollis is unbuttoning Liam’s shirt with his delicate, cold hands.)

Liam decides, for no particular reason, to turn back. He’s been meaning to catch up on his reading, but hasn’t had a chance to yet. He walks back down the main hall and goes through the doorway into the library. As always, it smells pleasantly of old glue and ink -- the smell of old books -- and the light is wonderfully dim, just as he likes it. The fire flickers pleasantly, and Liam decides that he’s not going to leave the library for a while. He’s got so much to catch up on, after all -- and then some part of the “real” world outside pushes inward on his awareness. He shoves it away. Liam wants to be alone right now. He hates to have company while he reads.

(Their clothes are neatly folded on the visitors’ chair, and Hollis is gazing at Liam with lustful, shy eyes. “Shall we continue?” he asks, the soft accent blurring the edges of his words. And oh yes, Liam wants to continue.)

Liam browses through the stacks until he finds a book he has read many times before. Never mind catching up on his reading -- he’ll just re - read. Again. He supposes that some day he’ll have to actually catch up on his reading, but right now he is content to reread the familiar. He believes he’d gladly reread his treasured collection of Sherlock Holmes -- it’s not yet the right time of year for Dracula, and he just doesn’t have the stamina today for Frankenstein, and The Catcher in the Rye is definitely out of the question. He’s just not in the mood. So Sherlock Holmes it is, and Liam retrieves the volume from its place on the shelf. He walks over to the couch before the fire and sits down.

(Liam watches Hollis’ hands. He has beautiful hands.)

Liam opens the book, careful as always of the spine, which is rather delicate in this book. He cradles it in his lap as he leans back into the couch, enjoying the warmth of the fire on his skin and the dancing light it casts on the walls. Liam likes to prepare before he reads, and this sitting before the fire is part of it. A cup of black tea is another part. Liam concentrates and imagines a cup of tea, black English tea, with a little bit of honey added to it, in his favorite china mug.

(Hollis has Liam pressed against the bed, limply, and he asks softly, intimately, “Do you think I’m so sick now?” A smile blooms on his lips.)

The mug of tea appears in his hand, and Liam sets it down on the coffee table while opening to a story he knows well -- ‘The Adventure of the Dying Detective’. This story was one of his first encounters with the eminent detective, and he treasures it for that reason, just as he treasures the volume it resides in -- printed fifty - one years before the beginning of the current reign, it’s older than his great - great - grandfather. In fact, it was a keepsake of his great - great - great grandfather, who gave it to his son, who gave it to his son, who gave it to his son, who gave it to his son, who gave it also to his son, who was Liam. He first came across the volume in his grandfather’s library, and received it as a present from his father after his grandfather had passed away. It is one of the few volumes from that time, two and a half centuries before, to survive without requiring restoration. It’s in perfect condition, through some caprice of God or fate, though somewhat fragile. He handles it with the careful skill that has resulted from his years of work in the library -- or perhaps that careful skill developed from the care for books his father taught him, using this book as an example. You could even trace his decision to be a historian to this book, for when he at last finished all the stories in the volume, he wanted to know more about the time period -- but neither his father nor his grandfather could tell him more about it. His teachers at school knew only a little about the subject as well, and so Liam threw himself into his studies, hoping to discover as much as he could about the Victorian age.

(Hollis nuzzles against Liam, sleepy. “Good - bye,” he says. “I have to leave now.” The words are eerie and disjointed, but still warm and loving.)

Liam sips from his tea and begins to read. He loves this story, and occasionally took Holmes’ hints on malingering -- but never passed them on to his friends. Liam would never do that. For one thing, he didn’t have any real friends when you could get a good break for malingering. And for the second, he only used it once -- when he had to attend his grandfather’s funeral. That was how he got out of school that day . . . faked sick and ran home to change into his best clothes and go to the funeral.

(Liam buttons his shirt, running on autopilot.)

Liam sets his mug of tea on the table. Someone’s knocking at the door. He gets up, walks out of the library, and goes to the front door. There’s no peep - hole through which he could see who’s knocking, so he just opens it anyway. It’s himself.

Rather unceremoniously, Liam is dumped back into the real world, and he finds himself sitting in the visitors’ chair, feeling about as still and calm as a typhoon.

The door seems to unlock itself and someone steps in. The blurry afterimage of the roaring fire is still greenly imprinted on Liam’s eyes, so he doesn’t see anything until whoever’s standing there raises an eyebrow in polite question.

Liam intends to say, “Oh, I was just visiting,” but what falls out of his mouth is more like : “Oh - I - visit - vi - oh . . .”

“It’s all right,” someone says in a comforting voice. “Want me to call a taxi for you?”

Liam nods and tries to thank his rescuer. Instead, he founds himself being gingerly embraced.

“How about I take you to lunch?” his rescuer asks as they walk down the hall.

“S - suh - so - sounds w - wuh - wonderful,” Liam stutters.

“Don’t worry about it,” says his rescuer. “I’m not going to ask any awkward questions.”

They walk through the hospital to the front doors, and Liam clings to his rescuer. He does not want to be abandoned.

“D’ you mind if we take my carriage instead?” asks his rescuer. “I seem to’ve left my wallet at home.”

Liam doesn’t even try to answer, just follows his rescuer out the hospital doors into the relatively warm noontime sun. They make a left turn and there’s a carriage standing at the curb. His rescuer waits for Liam to get in before entering as well.

“The name’s Ashley,” he says, extending a hand for Liam to shake. Liam shakes it. “I’m an experimental physicist at the Laboratories.”

“Reference -- librarian,” Liam stutters.

“Oh, I see,” says his rescuer -- Ashley. “Hmm. I’ve seen you before. You’re the guy who runs books for us?”

“Yes,” says Liam, his voice unsteady. He looks up at his rescuer. It’s an unusual sight.

The first thing he notices is the pale skin, so pale that Liam’s friend the biologist would definitely inquire about Ashley having any feelings of faintness or sensitivity to sun -- he looks like an anemic albino. His eyes -- or eye, anyway -- are pale grey, almost silvery in color. His hair is much the same color, very pale grey with a silvery sheen. Definitely albino, Liam decides from the weight of the two years of biology he took in high school.

“It’s okay to stare,” his rescuer says. “I look rather strange, I know.” He lifts aside the fringe of hair covering his right eye. “So get the full picture now.”

Ashley’s right eye is fake -- very much so. It’s a well - done prosthetic, and the iris is pale blue in color. However, the prosthetic is much larger than the other, natural eye, and so it doesn’t seem to quite fit in the eye socket.

Ashley lets the fringe drop, covering his right eye again, and adjusts his glasses. He’s dressed unusually as well, in white down to the shoes, with what appear to be ruby earrings, one per ear.

Liam ducks his head and stares at his shoes.

“You’re fine,” says his rescuer. “Hmm -- do you know that new geneticist fellow?”

“Yes,” says Liam. “I visited with him just this morning.”

“Good,” says Ashley. “I’m going to leave you with him, then -- I have some business of my own to attend to, I’m afraid.”

The carriage comes to a stop in front of the Laboratories, and Ashley steps out, with Liam following after.

“You know where he works, right?” Ashley asks.

Liam nods.

Ashley nods as well, then looks at Liam keenly. “You look cold,” he says, and then shrugs off his long overcoat and puts it around Liam’s shoulders. Liam is surprised when it fits almost perfectly. “There you go. Remember -- lunch. Tomorrow all right?”

Liam nods, hugging the coat around him. He was cold, in fact -- how did Ashley know that? “Yes. Thank you.” he whispers.

“No problem,” says Ashley. “You know where to find me.”